Don't You Tell Me Everything's Going to Be Alright
by TheRockNRollBeauty
Summary: Alfred has a shameful secret. Can Ivan help him out of the cycle of self-destruction? Eating disorder fic. RusAme
1. Chapter 1

**I really wanted to do a hurt/comfort fic with RusAme...and I've been reading a fair amount of stories that involve America having an eating disorder, so...I wanted to try it out. I tried to make this as accurate as possible, but I've never had/known anybody who's suffered from bulimia. So please forgive any inaccuracies, I don't mean to offend. Also, there's going to be some disturbing imagery, obviously. This will probably eventually flesh out to be more of a RusAme story, although this chapter just has mainly hints. **

**I have a million fics/drabbles that I'm working on at the moment , including fleshing out my post apocalyptic story. Things have been a bit busier for me lately, but I'm trying my best to work on my fics. :) **

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><p>Alfred's too ashamed to eat in public anymore, so he simply hauls the bags of food home, dumping them on the table in his kitchen. Packages of cookies and snack cakes, cartons of ice cream, microwavable dinners and frozen pizzas spill out over the tabletop, splitting the paper bags through their bulk.<p>

As he thaws and microwaves the food he takes handfuls of chips and cookies, stuffing them down his throat without even taking the time to taste or chew, wiping the excess grease and melted chocolate and icing on his jeans.

The ding of the microwave and buzz of the oven are like the chimes of angels to his ears; he used to savor the heavenly smell of food but now it just ignites a fervent, insatiable desire and _need _to fill_._

Alfred sits down and surrounds himself with the food, not waiting for it to cool, tearing through the rest of the grocery bags for his saturated fat-laden salvation. He picks up the food with his hands, shoveling Easy Mac and ice cream and Pop Tarts and sausage pizza into his mouth, anything within reach, not caring about the mess he's making all over the table, his shirt, and his face.

It _sucked_ to eat alone, but he had no option. It's not like he could invite anyone to share, like Ivan, because he felt disgusting, and he knew Ivan would look at him and see nothing but a fat pig who didn't deserve his love.

_If he didn't see that already. _

He eats and eats but the joy is gone, instead it is just compulsive, just a need to fill an intangible void unfortunately not located in his stomach.

Finally he stops, only when he can't shove and cram down any more, gagging on a handful of half-frozen taquitos, the void temporarily filled. He wipes his mouth and leans back in his chair.

But now that he's not stuck in the mindless gorging, the pain and the guilt begin to set in. He groans and puts a hand on his stomach, the strain of the overeating putting tears in his eyes. He feels something solid creeping on his throat and when he burps _grossly like some fat pig_ it smells like acid and grease and it _burns_.

He's feels bloated and disgusting, the giant meal like a hard stone in his abdomen. The mere weight of the food in his stomach is already making him nauseous. The panic overtakes him, making his heart beat erratically and painfully against his ribs, _oh no, oh no, oh no, I'm fat fat fat, so obese I need it out out out out I need it out of me_—_ _

Alfred puts a hand over his mouth and pushes himself up, almost knocking over his chair in his haste, and quickly stumbles to the bathroom. He falls to his knees in front of the toilet, hands clenching tightly on the rim until his knuckles whiten, his stomach heaving and his throat seizing.

When he first began he had to use something to help him-toothbrushes stabbed into his mouth, foul-tasting emetics, thoughts of England's cooking. But now, he only needs the barest touch of fingers in his throat to make it all come up again, chunks of partially digested food that still retain their basic color and shape splatter from his mouth, mixing and roiling together below the mottled surface of the toilet water.

He purges his stomach, one hand down his throat and one pressing on his belly until there's nothing left but greenish-black acid that ends up dribbling up over his lips and down his chin, little speckles decorating the porcelain seat.

Alfred feels lighter, more empty, but he doesn't feel _better_, he never feels better. It's just a routine that he plays by rote, a cycle of hurt and food and vomit, following it mindlessly like a dog chasing its own tail. He wants to cry, wishing so bad that he could just throw up all the fat, just get rid of it all, just _stop eating just stop I just want to be thin somebody tell me I'm thin that's all I want that's all__—_

He changes out of his sick-smelling clothing and into a pair of warm pajamas and goes to bed, too exhausted to do anything more than curl up pathetically under the sheets and dream of the perfect, _perfect_ body that he wants so badly_—_

The next day is the beginning of another series of world meetings so he slicks back his hair and splashes on cologne to hide the lingering scent of acid and vomit and dresses himself in a thick gray suit a size too big for him, bought intentionally to hide his huge stomach, his jiggling thighs, the disgustingly thick layer of fat that seems to be _everywhere__—_

He notices his throat hurting lately, whenever he takes a look at it in the mirror it appears red and raw and swollen. His stomach stings periodically, and there are scabs on the back of his hand. His teeth seem smaller too, which makes him frustrated. Why were his teeth getting thinner, and nothing else? It wasn't _fair_.

Alfred wipes away the stinging in his eyes and chugs down a handful of diet pills.

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><p>His chest throbs and hurts, his stomach stinging and empty and gnawing at his body like a hungry beast. He taps his pen on the table ceaselessly, irking Mexico, who shoots him an annoyed look before folding his head in his hands.<p>

The meeting is lasting too long, all too long for him. The emptiness is starting to hurt, the way his stomach begs to be filled, all the promises_—_ if he eats, he'll feel _better__—_

When Germany calls for a midday break America can't get out of the room fast enough, though he hates the bounce of the quivering belly he can _feel_ underneath his suit that he knows everyone else can see.

He's taken to eating by himself during lunch breaks, eschewing the buffet provided by the conference host and instead fleeing to a nearby diner where nobody he knows can see him, hidden in the most clandestine of booths. He orders as much food as his wallet can afford, waiting with sick anticipation until the waitress returns, arms heavily laden with plates. He sucks down burgers and fries, chugging a rainbow of milkshakes until his stomach feels fit to burst out of his abdomen. He slaps the money for the food down on the table and rises out of the booth, pulling his jacket tightly around him as he asks the waitress where the bathroom is.

But fear seizes at his chest when he finds the bathroom door locked, a devilish coin-operated stall. He searches through his empty wallet, almost ripping out the inner pockets of his jeans and jacket searching for change, but finds nothing. Panic wells up along with his tears of humiliation as he puts a hand on the nauseous ball of food in his stomach. _Oh God, he wants it out, he needs it out_—_ _

He could've simply asked someone for change but right now his terror and shame takes over and he's not thinking properly. Alfred flees the diner, trying to make it back to the conference building where he _knows_ there's a bathroom, before he has to give in and vomit on the sidewalk or in a garbage can.

Alfred just barely makes it in the bathroom after staggering through the building's lobby, throwing open the stall door with enough foresight to lock it before plunging to the ground and letting it all come up, without even the use of a finger this time.

This time he can't stop the tears of humiliation from coming as he vomits, drips of tears and snot dribbling into the bowl's water as he finally finishes, until there's nothing left inside him.

It's not long before the tears erupt into outright sobs, his entire body quivering as he weakly holds himself up above the porcelain bowl, staring at his blurred and distorted reflection in the contaminated water and _it smells, it smells so bad__—_

Suddenly, Alfred hears shuffles of movement from outside the door. His heart seizes at the sound of the bathroom door creaking open, followed by the click of footsteps. Terrified that someone had been listening, he desperately tries to stop his sobbing and calm his breathing, but he can't help the little whimpers that fall from his dribbling mouth.

The footsteps are getting closer and closer, and he can hear the doors of the other stalls creek open as someone looks inside_—_

He curls up against the toilet at the sounds, shutting his eyes and willing the person to go away with all of the mental might he had left.

_Just go away, just leave me alone, oh God, don't look at me like this_—_ _

He creaks his eyes open just a little when he hears the footsteps stop, only to see with horror the sight of a pair of familiar boots appearing just under the door of the stall.

"Alfred?"

Oh, no, oh no, it's _that_ voice_—_

Alfred puts his hands over his ears and bites his lips until it feels like he's about to break through the skin. _He_ can't see him like this, not him, he's supposed to be a hero, and heroes don't_—_

His breathe gives a betraying hitch as the door is shaken against the lock. The voice comes back, more insistent.

"I am knowing that you are in here. Come out."

Alfred can feel his tears rising up again but he forces them down even as they begin to boil over into full out sobs. He's safe as long as he doesn't answer. He's safe, he's safe, he's okay_—_

With resounding force the lock on the bathroom door snaps off, rattling against the stall's wall.

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><p><strong>I feel I've written a lot of fluff lately. So I guess that means I missed writing Alfred torment? But this time, we'll have Vanya to help him through it. :) <strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys! It's been awhile for this fic, hasn't it? I finally decided to finish the chapter and upload it today!**

**Ivan finally enters the scene~**

**Enjoy guys!**

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><p>Alfred jolts and almost hits his head on the rim of the toilet. He scrambles on the wet floor, trying to pull back away from the large man now filling the stall's opening.<p>

"What are you doing here?" He practically screams, some part of him hoping it will scare away the huge nation, though he knows its practically impossible.

Alfred hates the feeling of Ivan's eyes on him, as if they're appraising him, sizing him up like a piece of meat, noticing all of the faults and rolls of fat that he knows that everyone else sees—

"Alfred? What is going on?"

Part of him hates Ivan and wants him to go away, and part of him wants to the Russian close, to just hold him and comfort him and tell him he's beautiful, that he loves him.

"N-nothing. Go away."

But Ivan is too stubborn, damn it, something he must've learned from spending so much time around Alfred.

"You were vomiting."

"No."

"_Da_, you were. I heard you."

"S-so what?"

Ivan kneels on the wet and filthy bathroom floor, uncaring of the suit and shoes that were sure to be dirtied. He reaches out a put a hand to the side of Alfred's face.

"Fredka, are you sick?"

Alfred pulls back from the touch, almost hitting his neck on the toilet again.

"Why do you care?" He voice comes out for more venomous than he intended. But it makes Ivan retract his hand, so Alfred doesn't care.

"Such question," Ivan mumbles, "I don't know why you ask that."

Alfred looks down.

"I care very much for you, do you not understand that?" Ivan's face creases in a frown, "I thought I've made that very clear."

Ivan sighs, a little sadly, perhaps. Alfred's chest pangs a little, he doesn't want Ivan to be like that, doesn't want him to think that it's his fault, he just wants him to go away. Alfred rubs his eyes, pulling one knee up to his chest to try to hide the trembles in his torso.

"I-I know, Ivan, _damn it_, I know that but things-things are hard and I'm-well, there's just some stupid things but I'm _fine_, I'm fine, I'm fine." He falters off, turning his head to stare at the floor.

"Alfred," Ivan starts, but his voice peters out. Instead of speaking he reaches forward again, gently touching the side of the American's head.

"What _is_ going on?" He cards his fingers through Alfred's hair, frowning.

"Nothing!" Alfred tries to shout, but his voice falters and falls back into that tearful tone. His shoulders begin to shake, his entire body shaking as he brings his arm up to his eyes and tries to stop the tears from coming up. Ivan lowers his hand a little, palming on of Alfred's cheeks and gently tilting the young nation's chin up. Ivan's eyes are focused and hard but not uncaring.

"You are sick."

And Alfred just nods at that. _Let Ivan think that this is some kind of stomach flu. That's okay. That's better than the truth. _

Alfred almost wishes that he _was_ sick. Sick people don't get fat. God—he remembers the epidemics of cholera back in the eighteenth and nineteenth century, when his body was thin enough to see and feel the ribs poking through. Alfred never thought he would have ever wanted that back again. But anything was better than being like _this—_being this _fat_.

_Fuck, he's crying again_. He looks up at Ivan once, who looks shocked at the tears pouring from Alfred's eyes, and then downturns his gaze again.

"It's okay," Ivan pats him on the shoulder, worrying his lip in his teeth before letting out a tiny, half-hearted laugh, "Why is Fredka so sad over just being sick?"

The laugh makes Alfred's chest sting, and he keeps his eyes on the pools of water and limp toilet paper clinging to the bathroom floor.

"Alfred?"

When the American speaks, he has more venom in his voice than he intends.

"What? What do you want me to say? What do you want from me?"

"I don't want anything from you. I just need for you to be all right, my little sun."

"B-but—" But I'm _not_ all right._ I'm not_.

"Can you let me help you?"

"I-I don't—"

Big arms instantly hug him, Ivan's coated body enveloping him and for a brief shining moment Alfred feels safe before he remembers the horror and the _lies_.

"I love you. _I love you_. Do you understand?"

Alfred nodded into Ivan's soft shoulder. He _knew _that Ivan loved him.

But he didn't know if Ivan loved his body.

His breath hitches further and he shuts his eyes. He hates how Ivan's hands feel like hot iron on his skin, like two serpents searching for that disgusting fat—

Ivan kisses him lightly on the neck, and Alfred _shudders_.

The Russian pulls back a little and tilts Alfred's head up, looking into his lover's eyes and giving him a small smile.

"Do not worry about the rest of the meeting."

Alfred's mouth opens, flash of panic showing through his eyes.

"What? No, I—"

Ivan places a finger to his lips.

"Do not worry. I am going to take you home. If the other's question it, I will make them understand that you are unwell."

Frustrated, Alfred jerks back from Ivan's finger and tries to push his arm away.

"Ivan, I'm not some kind of—"

Ivan's digit follows, silencing Alfred once more.

"I am knowing. But if you do not rest than it will simply get worse. That is end of conversation."

Ivan presses this finger harder against Alfred's mouth when he tries to protest again. Ivan's eyes are determined.

"I will call for us a car to take you home. Do not worry. There is _nothing_ to be worried about."

Ivan took Alfred's face into both of his hands, tilting it up and meeting Alfred's gaze with a sad, worried but indefinably _fond _expression.

"I miss it when you smile, _solynyska_."

Alfred forces it, a little, for Ivan's sake, but at the end is quivers and a little sob slips past his lips. It's too fake to even try. Russian kisses him on his forehead and his muscles clench and it _hurts. _

Ivan gets up and calls for the car and makes sure nobody else comes into the bathroom, shooting a desperate looking Yong Soo a death glare when he barged into the room, sending the man running off in search of another toilet.

Alfred is still on the floor, and Ivan isn't sure _how_ to deal with this. He's not had too much experience with taking care of people. And never did he think he'd have to take care of Alfred like this. Alfred was always very strong, very self confident, to the point of arrogance. He looked so sad right now, though Ivan had chalked it only up to sickness.

_After all, what else could it be? _

Ivan puts his hands around Alfred's waist and before the American can yell at him or struggle away Ivan has lifted him up and placed him on shaky legs.

He holds Alfred's hand all the way to the car, stuffing their entwined fingers into Ivan's coat pocket, because Alfred look a little cold and Ivan swears that he's shivering.

The he opens the door and helps Alfred into the vehicle even as the America snorts and tells him that he's fine and Russia's brows crease in worry.

Because he is obviously _not_ fine.


End file.
